The Unearthly Quandary
by wishyfishy
Summary: Another case: Single Homicide. Boring, right? But with strange clues piling up, coinciding with the appearance of the equally strange 'DI John Smith,' it seems that this case has more to it than meets the eye.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing of BBC's brilliant creations…

Author's Note: Before I start this, I just want everyone know how Sherlock fits into the Doctor Who universe in this fanfic. Since the only mention (that I can remember) of Sherlock Holmes in Doctor Who is in the "Hungry Earth" and that takes place in 2020, then I figure that it is the modern Sherlock Holmes that they are talking about, because it is far enough in the future for Sherlock to become worldwide famous. Makes sense? If not please review or PM with your questions.

And another thing I shall warn you about. I'm not a medical student, so whatever is said about the cause of death is completely compiled from the internet. Do not quote on that stuff because it might not be totally correct.

)))))

The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson:

The Unearthly Quandary

Another gloomy, cloudy, and cold day in London. It doesn't mean that London is always like that, but the weather always seems to act up when there is another murder for Sherlock Holmes to solve.

The wind was picking up when Sherlock and I came up to the police barricade in the empty car lot. In the middle of it all there was a dead woman lying on the pavement with coppers crowding around her like flies. Sergeant Donovan had let us into the mix, and Sherlock was now, after scaring away the forensics and other officers, crouching over the body and examining her with his hawk-like eyes.

I watched as he did that, observing the woman in the meantime. She was middle-aged, with wrinkles just starting to appear around here face. Her sandy blonde hair was pinned up in an intricate bun, while the rest of her body was covered in black pants and a white button-down blouse. She was sprawled out on the concrete, her eyes still gazing emptily out into the world.

Pretty soon, as time carried on and I continued to gaze at the body, I notice something. I wasn't sure if it was the lighting, but it seemed like her skin was stained slightly yellow, which considering the situation and my medically trained eye could only mean one thing: poison.

What an awful way to go.

"Her name was Eartha Rood," Lestrade informed us as he came up to watch over Sherlock's inspection. "Found her ID in her pocket. She's-"

But the DI was cut off by a commotion coming from behind at the entrance to the barricade. I looked back as Lestrade went to see what the hubbub was about. I couldn't distinguish much through the bodies of gathering coppers. All I could spot was a tuff of spiky brown hair and a long flapping trench coat.

A few moments later Lestrade had sorted everything out by commanding with a loud, serious voice. There was a flashing of an ID and before I knew it the owner of the hair and coat was strolling over towards us with the detective by his side. I could now see the man fully and was able to gaze at his odd outfit that included a brown pinstripe suit and converse along with his said coat. He had a smile on his face a jump in his step as they slowly made their way towards Sherlock and I.

"This is DI John Smith from Essex. He's here on a lead from another case he's handling. Says this one is connected somehow," spoke Lestrade as he and the man finally reached us.

"What's the other case?" I asked, curious.

"Uh…I'll have someone send over the files…," replied Smith, dodging my question with his quirky smile still planted on his face.

Even though he didn't give me a straight answer, I didn't chase the subject further. It really wasn't my business, and now that I think about it I don't think I cared that much. I was used to people (mainly Sherlock) not giving me straight answers, so I didn't really see it as odd at the time.

"Well…this is Dr. John Watson and that man there in Sherlock Holmes," began Lestrade pointing each of us as he introduced us. "They…um…consult with us."

"Oh, consulting detectives. Haven't seen one of those in a while," cheerily commented Smith.

"What do you mean? Sherlock is the only one in the world," I replied, my eyebrows slightly furrowed in confusion.

"Uh…don't we have a dead person to look at?" responded Smith, dodging my question once again and then going over to Eartha Rood's body.

The moment the DI got close, Sherlock spoke up. "Mr. Smith, if that is your name, please wait 'till I'm done. I don't like people working over my shoulder." He didn't have the decency to face Smith while talking; instead he continued to stare at the body.

Normally people do as they were told when it came to Sherlock (he just has that air about him), but Smith didn't. In fact he acted like he didn't even hear him at all. The man continued to move towards the corpse and ended up crouching next to it and Sherlock. I gazed in some kind of slight amazement as Smith took out a pair of square glasses and began inspecting Eartha Rood as well.

"Was I talking to thin air or are you just deaf?" questioned Sherlock, finally looking up at the DI.

I noticed his eyes sweeping Smith, scrutinizing the man like he did with every other person he met. I sometimes wonder about everything he sees with his quick eyes. I guess that he only tells me about a few things, things that he deems important. But there must be so much that he sees on an everyday basis. Must be maddening.

Anyway, I'm getting off topic. Back to Smith's response…

"Oh, I heard you. But as far as I can tell, you're not in charge here," stated Smith. Just like Sherlock first did to him, he wouldn't face him when he spoke, instead gazing at the corpse.

"Neither are you," replied Sherlock simply and coldly.

"True…but…" It was then Smith trailed off. And taking his pinky, he brushed it along the woman's pants cuff. "Oh, 'ello," he commented with a smile as a green-ish goo (for lack of a better term) came off on his finger.

The substance looked similar to the ectoplasmic slime in Ghostbusters, which meant to say that it resembled that of fresh mucus only a tad greener. Odd, I thought. What could that be? And why was it on the body? I leaned in for a closer look.

"What? What is it? What have you found?" questioned Lestrade, obviously as curious as I was.

"I don't know," began Smith, sniffing the substance. "Smells like radial excrement from a…" He sniffed again. "Bipedal amphibious creature…but doesn't look like it…usually its clear yet this sample has some sort of green discoloring…" He then took out a small vial from his pocket and scraped the goo off his figure inside. Afterwards he capped the vial and placed it back into his pocket. Without a second thought he continued to examine the body.

I blinked. I didn't understand a word of what the man just said. I stood in a perplexed cloud of thoughts for a few moments as Lestrade next to me seemed to do the same. But soon I shook my head to blow away the confusion. There was really no need for me to worry myself over what Smith said. It mostly didn't matter. Plus, Sherlock would probably explain it later. I wasn't the genius in this group.

"Okay…I'm not going to even ask what he talking about…," I commented, then turning to Lestrade who was blowing away his own cloud of bewilderment. "Um, I'm guessing she was poisoned…do you know what kind yet?"

But before the detective could answer, Sherlock stood up and, acting like his normal inconsiderate and brilliant self, spoke for him.

"They won't know for sure until the lab report comes back, but I do know that this wasn't an accident. She doesn't seem to have any illnesses that require her to take jaundice-inducing medications, nor does she seem to be a drinker. Therefore, she was poisoned with mercury or some type of medication, which caused her skin and eyes to turn yellow.

"She's recently single, judging the tan line on her ring finger. And she's now living with her sister. No one can do that hair style on their own and she doesn't look like the type that can afford a hair dresser to do it. So her sister's probably a hair dresser as well. She was also on her way to a date, judging by the make-up, but an unofficial and sudden date based on the fact that she's still wearing her work clothes. They are cheap and have tiny spots of grease and food on them, making her a waiter, probably at a higher end chain, most likely an Italian one."

Then Sherlock turned towards the foreign DI. "'Mr. Smith' what was that case you were talking about that you think is connected to this one? And how did you it was so quickly? They police only found the body not but an hour ago."

"Oh you _are_ brilliant," replied the man, standing up to face Sherlock.

He was again dodging questions, but that wasn't what puzzled me. It was his tone of voice. It was almost like he was talking to a puppy that had just rolled over on command. Or a small child or had just taken its first steps. It was quite odd for him to speak that way about Sherlock who had deduced stuff of that nature, no doubt thousands of times before.

"But you're wrong about one thing," Smith continued with a sly smile, dropping the puppy dog voice.

"And what might that be, 'Mr. Smith'?" questioned Sherlock, facing the man with one eyebrow raised in almost an amused manner.

Smith quirkily smiled again, putting his hands in his pockets. "She was poisoned alright, but it didn't cause that yellowing of the skin. That color is natural for her," replied the man cryptically.

"What do you mean?" asked Sherlock.

There was a tone to his voice almost like a challenge, like he was testing Smith's deduction capabilities. There was also the normal tone of contempt that he seemed to display to everyone, saddled with the impression that Sherlock didn't really believe the man's proclamation.

"Well…you're brilliant…you'll find out eventually…" responded Smith.

With a wink and a smile, the man was off before anyone could stop him. Without a second more, he disappeared into the grey London day, leaving behind him plenty of perplexed people.

))))

"He's different…," muttered Sherlock.

We had just left the crime scene after a few more minutes of normal chit-chat between Lestrade and my flatmate. Well when I say normal, I really mean exchanges of suggestions (really orders) from one side, and some questions asked vainly by the other. Nothing is never truly normal with Sherlock Holmes.

"…his shoes for one," continued the psychotic genius. "Besides the clear contempt he displays for fashion, they are obviously very worn, telling us that he is on his feet a lot, probably running…There's also his fingernails, which have dirt underneath them, a purple-y flaky kind of dirt, a type of dirt I've never seen before on this continent. Then there was his tone of voice. He displayed a false cheery almost childlike tone that accompanied his obvious yet clever and well done lies. He was clearly hiding something. He's not a DI as much as I'm a bus driver. His unusual apparel is evidence of that. Yet he was able to get across the police line like he was one…"

"He had an ID, Sherlock. He showed it to us," I interjected, confused as to why he had missed such obvious fact.

"Oh, you mean that silly little slip of blank paper?" replied Sherlock offhandedly.

My bewilderment deepened. What was he getting at? Had Sherlock finally snapped? "It wasn't blank. It said that he was a DI from Essex."

"I didn't see that."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know…but that ID was blank," responded Sherlock, increasing his speed and walking on ahead of me.

My confusion deepened. I had seen the ID. It was clearly official, and while I probably wouldn't notice much difference between a real ID and a fake one, the police and detectives who had also seen it probably could. They would've said something if it was fake…or blank as Sherlock was putting it.

"It wasn't blank," I said increasing my pace in order to keep up.

"Yes it was," replied Sherlock not bothering to slow down for my benefit.

That again didn't make any sense. What was going on here?

It occurred to me right then and there that this might be one of Sherlock's sick and twisted mind tricks. But what exactly was he trying to accomplish here?

I shook my head and sighed. There really wasn't any point in trying to figure that out right now. As Sherlock would put it, my inferior mind couldn't have possibly handled the truth at the moment. So I changed the subject to something even I could understand.

"Did you get what he was talking about during that bit about what was it…'radial excrement' or something like that? I didn't follow a word of it."

"I was too busy getting a sample of that myself to pay attention to his babblings," stated Sherlock.

"What? That green stuff?" I questioned.

"Yes, of course. What you didn't think I noticed that? How could anyone not notice that? It's so obvious."

"No it wasn't."

"Yes it was."

"Whatever…so are you going to try to find out what that is?"

"What kind of genius would I be if I didn't?" replied Sherlock with his trademark shrewd smirk as he hailed a taxi.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Me own no thing of good story.

Author's Note: Again, most of this info was pulled off the internet, so don't quote me. Except the stuff about Avogadro's constant, because that's straight from my Chemistry class.

Once back at the flat, things settled quickly back into their usual routine. I was cleaning, reading, and eating, while Sherlock did nothing but feverously work on our latest case which included smelly chemicals, a microscope, and the green goo. Oh, got to love normalcy.

I was sitting and eating my lunch at the dining room table, while Sherlock was doing things that were more suited for a Chemistry lab rather than a place where people were supposed to eat.

"Will you stop that infernal crunching?" demanded Sherlock, looking up from the microscope and giving me an irritated glare.

"I'm eating soup," I responded incredulously.

"Yes, well I can still hear your jaw breaking down the process bits of meat. So either quiet your chewing or go somewhere else. I'm trying to work here."

I could see the frustration in Sherlock's eyes. I could tell he was on edge. But that didn't really matter. It wasn't the first time he was like this.

"Well, I not that hungry anyway," I replied huffily, getting up to put my half-finished soup in the sink, not fancying the impending fight. Plus, I really didn't want to deal with Sherlock at the moment. He wasn't the only one on edge. Smelling nasty chemicals while you're trying to have a decent meal can get on anyone's nerves.

"Haven't you figured out what that goo is yet? It's been like 3 hours," I stated on my way back to the table.

"It's been 2 hours and 43 minutes exactly and no I haven't figured out what the 'goo' is yet. It's some sort of organic material…that much is certain," Sherlock responded his eyes once again glued onto the microscope.

One could just taste the aggravation in the man's voice.

"You're frustrated, aren't you?" I said, asking the obvious.

"Yes!" exclaimed Sherlock, suddenly slamming his hands on the table and almost making me jump. "I've solved cases faster than this!" He then proceeded to run his fingers repeatedly through his hair, making it even more of a curly mess then it was before.

"Haven't you stopped to wonder if what John Smith said was true? Maybe it is a 'radial excrement-" I suggested, trying to be remotely helpful (after all it was about as plausible as some of Sherlock's other harebrained theories) before the genius abruptly cut me off.

"'From a bipedal amphibious creature'? That doesn't even make sense, even to me. There are no true bipedal amphibious creatures. The man was obviously talking gibberish to try to sound smart. He was trying to impress me. It's that stupid blog of yours at it again," Sherlock stated, pointing an accusing finger at me.

"Then what could it be?" I said with a frustrated sigh.

"That's the thing…I don't know!"

And with that, Sherlock stood up and began to pace feverishly, whole body tensed in deep concentration.

I sighed. The man was obsessed, simply put. And I couldn't help it. I had to say something, anything to make him calm down and make him see that worrying over this stupid goo wasn't good for him. Plus, his stress was beginning to stress me out too.

"I'm sure something will come along," I proclaimed.

And strangely, almost as if the universe was listening to my words, Sherlock's phone rang. The cell's owner quickly and eagerly answered the call, as if that was the one thing that was going to save his life from mortal danger.

"Sherlock Holmes," my flatmate spoke into the phone.

There was a pause as Sherlock stood stock still, face unreadable.

"Okay, we'll be right there."

And without so much as a blink, the resident genius, put his cell in his pocket, rushed to the sitting room, and began to put on his coat.

I followed Sherlock and grabbed my own coat while I was at it. I was curious. There seemed to be a spark of light in my friend's eye caused by that phone call, a light that I've seen many times before. It was a light that could only mean that some part of the case has just revealed itself to him and he couldn't wait to get his hands on it.

"Who was it?" I asked, putting on my coat.

"That so called DI Smith. Come on, John. There's no time to waste," replied Sherlock, and without further adieu, he rushed out the door. And I, as usual, followed close behind.

))))

We end up at a local café. One of those hometown ones that has recently popped up in response to Starbucks's amazing popularity. So as a result, it was fairly simple with a normal interior consisting of a counter, tables, and chairs, a variety of customers about, and an array of drink and pastry options posted on the wall. When we arrived in the café, we found Smith just finishing a conversation with the cashier, taking his hot tea and scone, sitting down at a small table by the window, and then proceeding to watch the passerbys out on the street.

Sherlock wasted no time in heading straight for the man, immediately taking the only available seat across from him. There being only two chairs at the table, I was therefore forced to seize another one from a different table in order to sit down.

"You said you had information," began Sherlock in the meantime.

Smith nodded, swallowing the bite of scone he had just taken as I took a seat. "Knew you'd be interested," he proceeded, taking a sip of his tea. "You're Sherlock Holmes of all people. I knew I'd heard you name before. You'll be famous; people will talk about you for millennia to come. And I'll tell you all you need to know…but first tell me something. What can you deduce from me?"

There was a look on Smith's face as he said that last sentence, not unlike the one Sherlock had given him a few hours ago. It was another look that proclaimed a challenge. It was like he was testing Sherlock, getting ready to compare what he will say to what the man has obviously heard about the guy. Never mind the strange comment about my friend's future celebrity status, Smith was clearly curious as to what Sherlock would say about him.

But as always, Sherlock refused to bow to anyone's will.

"I refuse to perform like a common magician," plainly stated my flatmate.

"Oh come on…every genius like to show off. And I know that from experience," pleaded Smith, his quirky smile appearing for an encore appearance.

There was a pause, as Sherlock considered taking up the DI's offer. I could almost see the gears whirling in his head at breakneck speeds. "Fine," the genius sighed.

I smiled. I knew he could never back away from a chance to show off. Smith was right. Sherlock did love to get a kick out of flaunting his detecting capabilities.

"I know you're not a DI," continued Sherlock. "Your apparel and manner are that of an eccentric and police never let eccentrics on their force. Plus, you're ID was blank. The only reason why you were let into the crime scene is your uncanny ability to appear trustworthy and lie with astonishing believability. Your shoes tell one that you are on your feet a lot, walking and/or running. You're obviously every knowledgeable or very ignorant judging by your air of confidence. You also travel. I spotted you talking to that cashier in Hindi. And for some reason you find people fascinating, yet…infidel based on the expression you had on while people watching."

Smith smile grew even wider as admiration and an almost maniac glee shone in his eyes in response to Sherlock's monologue. "I'll say it again. You _are_ good…_But_ you're also wrong. My ID wasn't blank…to normal people anyway…however you're not normal, are you?...But that's beside the point. I promised you information. So here it is: Whoever killed that young woman, somehow found out who I am. They sent me a little message through the coppers."

And with that Smith reached inside his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. There was nothing really special about it. It was just a normal half sheet of copy paper, something that anyone could find practically anywhere. That was until Smith unfolded it, revealing the message that was given to him.

"'6.02E23. Midnight. When stars fall,'" I spoke, reading the typed message out loud. I looked up at Smith and Sherlock, perplexed. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Haven't you learned anything in school?" sighed Sherlock, looking at me like I was a complete idiot. "6.02E23 is the Avogadro's constant."

"Stating that there are 6.02 times 10 to the 23rd power particles in a mole of any substance. Basic Chemistry," clarified Smith, taking another bite of his scone.

"And only a few days ago the Molar Complex opened up in north London," added Sherlock, clicking another piece into the puzzle.

"Okay, so this killer, or killers, ask Smith here to go to the Molar Complex at midnight, but what about that stuff about when the stars fall?" I summed up. This action was mostly done for my benefit for it was clear that neither Smith nor Sherlock needed it. But sometimes, no most of the time, brains don't move as fast as those two's seem to do.

"Well, what is a falling star? A meteor burning up in Earth's atmosphere of course and there's a meteor shower tomorrow night," stated Smith coolly, taking another sip of his tea.

"The Andromedids meteor shower," offhandedly included Sherlock like it was common knowledge. "But, what's important is why would they want to meet you? Why only you?"

"To tell you the truth, I don't really know. Could be a hundred different things," replied Smith, taking another bite of scone.

"Wait, so why are we here?" I interjected. If this was all about the DI, then why were we getting involved, other than to satisfy Sherlock's curiosity of course?

"Well…I couldn't mess up a chance to meet the famous Sherlock Holmes now could I?..._And_ I knew that goo wouldn't get you anywhere so I thought that you might want to…I don't know…tag along? I know you are a curious as I am," prompted Smith, with a curious smile and drink of his tea.

It was like the man had read Sherlock like an open book.

"Fine," replied my friend with his trademark smirk. "Meet us at our place at 11:00 tomorrow. I'm assuming you know that address…after all you do know me _so_ well." Sherlock stood up. I followed his lead. "But just in case it's…"

"221B Baker Street. Like I said: One day you'll be famous," interjected Smith with a mysteriously knowing smile and a wink.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Someday I would love to be able to own the rights to wonder series such as these but…sadly that day is not here…yet!

Nearly half an hour had past after we arrived back at the flat, and things were once again returning to their normal state. I was on my laptop, surfing the net and checking my blog, while Sherlock sat beside me, reading the newspaper and occasionally murmuring a few pompous comments about the daily news.

Then all of a sudden, the genius stood up, flung the newspaper to the floor, and started to pace. I momentarily glanced up as he began to move about, but soon went back to the computer screen upon concluding that he was going to do nothing of great consequence.

"There's something about this man. I just know it," stated Sherlock.

There was a pause and a silence in which only my friend's footsteps and my typing filled the void.

"He's unusual…there's just something about him," continued Sherlock.

I sighed, knowing that I was going to have to grant him some attention in order to get some peace and quiet. He can be such a little kid sometimes, I swear.

"Who are you talking about? What do you mean, Sherlock?" I asked, not bothering to look up from my laptop.

"That Smith character. Can't you see? He's not…_right_! It obvious that his name is not _John_ _Smith_…so who is he? More likely, _what_ is he? He's different…he's not like the others…," replied my eccentric flatmate.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, still not looking up. "He seems pretty normal compared to you."

"But that's the point! _I'm_ not normal…and neither is he. But he's different…I just know it…"

I tuned out his mutterings and continued to focus on my blog. One gets used to your flatmate voicing aloud his thoughts if you live with Sherlock. It keeps things interesting but it can get a tad annoying at times.

Fortunately, after a few moments, the genius halted his pacing and flung himself back down on the couch with as much grace as a dying fish. He then proceeded to reach over and pull out his violin. While holding it like a concert violinist, he began to scratch at the instrument with his bow. But instead of the normal melodic noise, what sounded like a symphony of dying cats emanated from the violin.

"If you're going to play that thing like that," I groaned with both frustration and trepidation. Sherlock had a tendency sometimes, when things were particularly troublesome, to play that instrument like he'd never picked it up before. 30 seconds of that noise would make anyone's ears begin to ache. "I'm going to get some milk…We always need milk."

With that little comment, I set down my laptop, grabbed my coat and headed out, fearing the horrors of Sherlock's purposefully horrid violin playing.

And, as he would later inform me of, it was after I left, that Sherlock hurriedly and eagerly put down the instrument of terror and picked up my computer. It was then that he began to search.

))))

Time passed as it always does. I lived on like a normal person, eating, sleeping, ect. Sherlock, on the other hand, carried on with his eccentric self, thinking and obsessing. The one thing I did notice though, was that he had discontinued his fixation on the green goo. I was grateful to say the least. It meant that for the time being, there was no more nasty chemicals to smell when I was trying to eat. And with Sherlock focused on the latest case, mainly centering on DI Smith, there was a dip in the amount of other experiments that I had to contend with for kitchen space. In other words, life was good at that point in time on 221B Baker Street.

But that of course was short lived, for tomorrow night quickly came. As the clock came worryingly close to eleven, things were as followed: I was sitting on a chair, reading the newspaper, while Sherlock was standing and staring impatiently out the window.

"Where is he?" he muttered.

"Calm down. I'm sure he'll be here shortly. It's only just now 11:00," I replied after glancing at the clock and then quickly returning back to the article I was reading.

In response Sherlock just sighed anxiously and furiously while turning away from the window like it had betrayed him. I could practically feel the tension coming off him.

"I suppose you're right…," he said with a grimace like admitting defeat was the worst thing in the world.

Sherlock then started to pace feverishly like he was waiting for a loved one to get out of surgery (if Sherlock had a love one) or something equally as dire instead of waiting for a man to show up. If one thing you haven't already noticed about my flatmate is that he's clearly got some major priority issues. I guess that goes along with the whole psychotic genius thing…

Suddenly, breaking the silence of footsteps and rustling paper, there was a knock at the door. Sherlock immediately rushed to the threshold, eager as a child on Christmas morning, while I finished reading the sentence I was on, put down the newspaper, and got up.

It was then that Sherlock opened the door. He was greeted with a trench coat, suit, and quirky smile. The man quickly made his way into the flat (without invitation), and began to look around with wide and excited eyes.

"Nice place…Actually was just how I thought it would be…amazing…," muttered Smith.

He continued to tour our flat, with a skip to his stride, until he stopped at the wall that Sherlock had previously shot at in destructive lack of excitement.

"Bored, eh?" commented Smith, pointing at the bullet holes and grinning like an idiot. "I do that too when I'm bored…_well_ not really. I rarely get bored…but when I do, I do feel like shooting something. Though I'd probably break something important if I did…though I'm sure I'd find somewhere…But I wouldn't anyways…I'm not the one for guns."

"How'd you get here? I didn't hear a cab," interjected Sherlock, sounding like he didn't really mean what he said. It was almost like he just was just saying that because he needed to speak, like there was something he wanted to say but couldn't bring himself to do it.

"I walked. You know already how much I just love to walk. Well really run…but that does matter…," answered Smith, ignoring or not noticing Sherlock's strange tone of voice. The man proceeded on to dining room where the set up for the green goo still sat. "_Oooo_…trying to figure out what the radial excrement is…I know you don't believe me when I say its radial excrement, but it is. But you're free to do whatever test you see fit. It's a free country…Brilliant by the way using hydrosulfuric acid to find out the reactant…" He then moved on to the kitchen, poking his head into the cabinets and drawers. "Oh, playing mad scientist, are yah? _Brilliant_!" the man stated, acting like a fanboy in his favorite celebrity's abode.

While all this was going on and I just stood there, staring at the man with confusion. Beside me, I could see Sherlock slightly shifting his weight from foot to foot. Now I'm no expert on the interworkings of the enigma that is my flatmate, but I could definitely tell that he wanted to say something, probably some brilliant deduction or conclusion that he had just come to. But for some reason he wasn't blurting it out, and for the life of me I couldn't figure out why.

"Now that you're here…Let's go," suddenly exclaimed Sherlock in the same tone as before.

"_Right_. Can't be late. Allons-y!" exclaimed Smith, and with that he led the way out the door.

Sherlock was close to follow, and consequently I was not far behind.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Insert clever 'I do not own' statement here.

On the ride over, I couldn't help but ponder Sherlock's strange and continued…antsy-ness, for lack of a better term. Why would a man that loves to prove that he is the genius that he is, is choosing not to flaunt his amazing abilities, was beyond me. But some part of my brain knew why. It was because Sherlock had some convoluted scheme in his head, and that whatever he had concluded he was going to blurt it out some in the near future. Just not now. Sometimes I wonder why I'm able to survive with such an irksome man.

After about a half hour drive, we arrived at the Molar complex. Even though it had just opened, the place looked like it had seen quite a few decades in its day. It was about seven stories high, and made of rusty brown brick. There were plenty of windows that peaked out of the building, and a fire escape that climbed up the side. Despite its aged architecture and exterior walls, there was new glass in the windows and fresh paint on its sidings. All of this led me to assume that the building had recently been refurbished, hence it's reopening.

It wasn't long before we were facing the locked front doors of the complex. The night was freezing and dimly lit with the only light being the streetlamp off on the far corner. In consequence, my hands were numb and there wasn't much else I could see but my breath that snaked out of my mouth with every exhale. The other two beside me both seemed immune to the cold and dark, eyes searching the complex for anything unusual.

"Do you think they're going to meet up outside or inside?" I questioned partly out of curiosity and partly because I didn't want to stand out in this cold for longer than I had to.

"Probably outside, otherwise why would they mention a meteor shower?" answered Sherlock

"I don't know…maybe they like star gazing," I responded, glancing up at the black velvet sky. Only a slight sliver of the moon could be seen hanging up there, and even then the clouds obscured its view. "But it's not like anyone can see anything in the city."

Damn you light pollution. That was one of the few things I liked about being in Afghanistan. There, one could finally see the stars in all their majestic beauty. Here in London, man made things were so bright that it was a rarity that one could even see Jupiter. Unfortunately, my reverie was broken by Smith suddenly speaking.

"The roof," he stated.

I turned my gaze from the sky to the foreign DI. "What about it?"

"Come on," he muttered instead of giving me a straight answer. And with that he ran off towards the side of the building.

It was strange. I barely hesitated in going after Smith. Don't me wrong, Sherlock did cross my mind but I guess I just assumed that he would follow as well, even though it was clear after a few moments that he was not coming. Yet, I continued to chase Smith up the fire escape. It was like it was compelled to follow him, led on by curiosity and something else I couldn't quite pin down.

"So why the roof?" I questioned, climbing up the fire escape after the man.

"Because you're right, they do like star gazing," replied Smith ahead of me.

"Wait, you know who they are?"

"Nope, just a wild guess…but my guesses are usually correct…_And_ I have a feeling who it might be…just not sure…"

A few steps later, we finally reached our destination. It was your average roof, one that you would find in any number of spy or superhero movies. A mixture of tar and gravel paved the floor, while air conditioning units poked out in a handful of places. It was even colder up here with the increased wind blasting my face with chilled and stinging air.

At first glance, the area was devoid of life, until a shadowed figure stepped out of the dark, making the hairs on my neck stand on end. I couldn't see its face because of the lack of light, which made me all the more tense, my body unconsciously steeling up for a fight. The figure was tall and heavily built, but it moved more like a shadow than a man. It was like the matter that made up its body wasn't all present, like it was made of smoke.

"Hello, Doctor," spoke the figure, with a deep malicious voice.

My eye brows furrowed as my head filled with confusing. As far as I knew I was the only doctor here.

"Wait. Aren't you here to meet him?" I questioned, gesturing towards Smith. "So why are you saying 'ello to me?"

"I meant _the_ Doctor. He is whom I'm speaking to," replied the figure like I was the biggest imbecile in the universe.

Shaking off the insulting tone (I was used to being talked to like that), I turned to Smith, even more perplexed. "You're a doctor?"

"Well kind of…," answered the man offhandedly before turning to the figure. "What do you want?"

"I want you to stop looking into the death of Eartha Rood."

"Why?"

"Don't worry. We'll handle it, Doctor," stated the figure with a final and menacing tone to its voice.

"Well, since you know who I am, then you'll know that I don't necessarily follow orders that well. So why even bother? Who are you?" questioned Smith in a light but determined voice.

His hands were in his pockets and he had a contradicting general air of casualness around him, like he was just standing on that freezing roof at night talking to a shadowy figure about the weather and current events.

"I'm giving you a warning, Doctor. It would be wise to go along with it."

"Again. You know of me, so therefore you know that I'm not wise. I have to have a _reason_ to follow orders. So why do you think I should do what you say?"

"Do it or others will die. That is a promise, Doctor. You do not know who you are dealing with," threatened the figure. And even though what it said and how it said it was practically dripping with cliché baddie malevolence, a chill not related to the cold ran up my spine.

"You're right. I have no idea. So why don't you enlighten me?" replied Smith. His light tone and casual air vanished with that threat to innocents' lives. His body was straight and tense, and there was a different type of menace in his voice than what came out of the figure's, a sort of measured darkness that you would think a wise god would exhibit on a bad day.

"Nice try," began the figure, not backing down. I could almost hear a wicked smile in his voice. "But that is all I'm giving you."

"Are you afraid? Is that what it is, then? You afraid that I'll do something to you or your people?" questioned Smith as he took a step forward.

"Just do as we ask."

"Who are you? No better question, _what_ are you?"

"Curiosity killed the cat."

But it was the figure that was reminding me of the cat in his situation. It was playing with Smith, just like a sadistic cat would do with a bug, but instead of pulling off limbs it was giving him just enough information to peak his interest, but refusing to give him anything else. He was taunting him with the freedom of knowledge, and Smith reacted accordingly.

"Show yourself!" he ordered, his voice and body practically rippling with frustration, anger, and menace.

A faint chuckle could be heard as the figure faded back into the shadows.

Silence followed, with the only noise being Jack Frost's cool breath as my extremities slowly became numb. I felt like I had to say something, anything to break this tense quiet between me and a stressed strange man, whom, fortunately, was slowly calming down.

"Well, that was…," I began, searching for an appropriate word. "…cryptic."

It was safe to say that I really didn't understand the majority of what happened in the previous conversation. So 'cryptic' didn't totally appeal to the mysterious nature of the figure and his words, but also the fact that the specifics of the exchange had practically flown over my head.

But I had gotten the general themes of the dialogue. The figure was threatening Smith not to follow up on Eartha Rood's death. It also knew more about the foreign DI than I apparently knew. But that wasn't really the highlight of the conversation for me.

"Do you think he was serious when he said that others will die?" I questioned with a worry ridden voice. I didn't want another Moriarty running around killing willy-nilly.

"I don't know…I hope not," replied Smith in a flat voice, obviously lost in thought.

"Yeah, well…," I began, shivering mostly because of the cold, but slightly because of the figure. I don't know what it was about the figure, but it definitely put my nerves on edge. It might've been its mysterious words or its unearthly presence…but whatever it was my internal danger sensor was ringing off the hook.

I sighed, the carbon dioxide curling out of my nostrils and flying off into the night, as my thoughts drifted. I didn't really wish to think about what the figure wanted or if it was really going to kill people, so I distracted myself. But as it always seems to be happening these days, my thoughts soon floated over to the eccentricities of my flatmate, which consequently naturally progressed to the actual person in question and then to his whereabouts at present.

It was after that thought that I fully realized that Sherlock wasn't with Smith and I on the roof. Don't get me wrong. It wasn't like I was _that_ oblivious. I'm sure somewhere in the back of my mind I knew he was not there, but I was so caught up in the moment that I didn't fully register it until that moment.

And it was then I began to worry. There were times that Sherlock could act like a complete wild child, so there was really no telling what trouble he could be getting himself into at that very moment. And with that strange figure out and about, he could get himself into possibly a lethal danger. It wouldn't be the first time he did this, but that still didn't dampen my uneasiness.

So while Smith began to scour the rooftop with a strange, blue, pen-like device that emitted an odd whirling noise, I rushed down the fire escape, hoping that the genius hadn't somehow gotten himself killed or mortally wounded.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Blah blah blah blah blah blah…..

Once back down on the ground, I began to search the dark, looking for signs of a long dark coat and a black curly head.

"Sherlock?" I called out, wondering where he could've gotten to since I couldn't spot him in my line of sight.

"I'm right here. You don't have to yell; I'm not deaf," answered a deep, insensitive voice.

I sighed and followed the voice around the corner of the building, my unease fading. It would figure that Sherlock wouldn't go very far, not when Smith (AKA the man of his obsession the past 24 hours) was still here and being interesting. As the genius in question would say, that conclusion was so obvious that it only served as proof that my intellect was severely lacking compared to him. But my experiences with Sherlock made it impossible for my mind to rule out anything. That's what his unpredictability has done to me. Thank you very much, Sherlock.

When I rounded the corner to meet up with him, I was immediately confronted by a front bumper, and a set of wheels. It was an older model car, one that you would find fairly easily in any local used car sales lot. It was small, only a 2-door, and a faded shade of dark green. It blended in so well to the asphalt it sat on that I very nearly bumped into. I would've too if it wasn't for the little ball of light attached to a curly-haired figure coming out of the car's front seat when I arrived.

"There you are," I sighed. "You won't believe who was up on the-"

"Yes, yes, you can enlighten me later," Sherlock cut in, waving off whatever I was going to say. "But it looks like Eartha Rood was planning to leave the country…with a new identity no less…"

He was looking down at the papers in his hand that accompanied his torch.

"What do you mean?" I questioned, moving closer to get a look at the papers.

"I found a passport and tickets to New York City in the glove compartment. See look…," began Sherlock, showing me a passport and an airplane ticket, illuminating them with the light from his torch. "Picture looks like her but the name is different. 'Mary Jones.' The two most common names in the English speaking world, means she was trying to blend in. And look, the ticket is only one way, so obviously not a vacation. But what's strange is that the ticket is for three month from now. Probably meaning that she still had things to settle here in the UK or that she wasn't that set in leaving, either way it indicates that she was not in imminent danger. But why was she leaving the country in the first place?"

He then turned towards the home of the passport and ticket. "And then there's the car. Hers, obviously from the fact that these things where in there. The vehicle has also been here since the day she died judging by the fact that no one's notice it and the lack of rain and dust. But the question is: why is it here, at least 5 miles from where she died? It doesn't make sense. She was heading to a date from work why would she stop here, and leave her car 5 miles from where she needed to be?"

With that final explanation, the man began to pace, the light from his torch bobbing alongside him like a lost little puppy dog. It was then that a clang, a thud, and footsteps were heard, soon followed by converse and a long trench coat.

"Well, that settles it," stated Smith with a grimace. "They got my full attention."

"Do you know who that figure was?" I questioned, turning away from my flatmate to him.

"I have a guess, but I have to find something else out to be sure," replied the man, scratching the back of his head.

"Well…uh…if this helps, Sherlock just found Eartha Rood's car and in it a passport and a one way ticket. She was planning to leave the country under a new name."

"What else did he find?"

"Oh some gum wrappers, tick-tacks, her car keys, and…," interjected Sherlock. He suddenly stopped his pacing, and looked up, eyes wide in realization. "So stupid! I can't believe I didn't register it!" he exclaimed, diving back into the car.

"What? What is it?" I asked, coming closer, as the torch light frantically swept the car.

"This!" he exclaimed, popping out of the car with a crumbled piece of paper in his hand like it was a nugget of gold he had just found in a stream.

As he unfurled the paper, Smith and I crowded around him to get a better look. It was similar to the message Smith had received. Plain, simple copy paper, nothing more or less. But this time around, the writing on it was even more cryptic. To the best of my memory, it was as follows: 2y920183048484u39303.

"But what does it mean?" I questioned, looking up at Sherlock, totally confused.

"I don't know…locker combination, phone number, coordinate points…but there are too many numbers and that doesn't explain the _y_ and _u_," replied my flatmate, eyebrows furrowed.

"Suppose its just gibberish?" I suggested. After all, it seemed like a plausible explanation to me.

"No, it has to be important, it was with the passport and ticket…but what does it mean?"

"Oh!" suddenly shouted Smith, making both Sherlock and I jump. "I can I be so stupid! It makes so much sense now!" The man was clutching his hair, and slowly backing away. His eyes were staring right through us in wide sudden comprehension.

"What? What are you talking about?" I questioned, perplexed at Smith's unexpected outburst.

"Yes, 'Smith' please enlighten us," added Sherlock.

"Those are numbers are for the location of Earth…add that with the passport, the ticket, the figure, the radial excrement…Oh! I can't believe I didn't see it before!" stated Smith, ignoring our questions and continuing to jumping up and down in excited realization. Suddenly he stopped, and looked at us like he just became aware that we were there. "I…uh…got to go. I'm sorry, but I would rather take care of it myself." He then turned and began to walk off.

"Hold on a minute!" I exclaimed as Smith started to move away. "You invited us along, the least you can do is tell us what the bloody hell you are talking about."

He looked back over his shoulder, almost like he was surprised to see that I was questioning his departure. "Um…Tell yah what. I'll tell you guys over tea sometime. But right now I got something to stop and you got a killer to catch. Good luck!" he responded quickly. And before I could protest even more, he was out of sight, swallowed by the night.

I stared at the darkness after him, at a complete loss as what to say. I wasn't even sure what really happened. Something had obviously occurred to Smith, but why he wouldn't say what it was, was the puzzling thing here. I repeat, he had invited us. He had let us into this part of the mystery, but then he was suddenly locking us out. I normally didn't find this hypocrisy in people, expect maybe in Sherlock.

"Well that was odd," I stated, feeling that I had to say something to voice my thoughts.

"Understatement of the year, John," muttered Sherlock, also staring at where Smith had disappeared.

"What do yah suppose he was talking about?" I questioned, turning towards my flatmate. If anyone would have even the slightest inclination as to what Smith had just said and done, it would be Sherlock.

"No clue…I would say that he is trying to impress me again, but I doubt that's the case right now…," he replied, looking away from the darkness to pocket the passport, ticket, and piece of paper. "But he's right about one thing. We do have a killer to catch." And with that he began to walk off towards the main street, the light from his torch lighting the way.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I own nothing of these brilliant creations, although if you believe in the collective unconscious then really no one owns them.

Author's note: I just would like to apologize for this long lapse in writing this fanfic. I've been trying to finish this thing since December, so it's been on the back burner of my life for a while. But now I'm done I feel a sense of wonderful accomplishment…Enough with my babbling…So without further ramblings I would like to present you with the conclusion of The Unearthly Quandary!

After the strange events and the interesting findings at the Molar Complex, what happened afterwards seemed surprising pretty normal…

The next day, Sherlock and I went to go talk to Eartha's coworkers, specifically the man that she was supposed to go on a date with. I pointed out that the police probably had already did this, but Sherlock just scoffed and repeated his long-lived adage that the police were simple-minded idiots that missed even the most obvious of things. That was the reason of course why they hired him.

And sure enough, he did discover things that they had missed. It was shortly after talking to the coworkers and Sherlock pointing out some amazing deductions that we found that the man Eartha was going to see had an extremely clingy ex-girlfriend who worked at the corner store across the street.

I really shouldn't have to tell you how quickly it took us to go over and talk to the ex-girlfriend. But you would be surprised how quickly after we arrived that we got a confession…at least what Sherlock took as a confession. The ex said that she had dosed Eartha's coffee with a handful of laxatives as a prank and a signal to back off from her man.

Sherlock smiled at this, a sort of knowing and mysterious smirk that so often plagues his face and drives me absolutely bonkers at times. He then continued to make me text the aforementioned dim-witted police to tell them to test Eartha's blood for laxatives as cause of death. I of course questioned my flatmate's outrageous conclusion, but all he gave me was that stupid smirk of his before walking out to the main street to hail a cab. I naturally followed, still completely perplexed.

))))

"Such a simple end. I'm surprised that I didn't figure it out sooner," muttered Sherlock, once the car was heading back to our flat. He was staring impassively out the window as London zoomed by.

"But it doesn't make sense," I began. "How could Eartha Rood die from too many laxatives? And what about the passport and ticket, the yellow skin, the 'radial excrement,' the figure on the roof, and the fact that her car was 5 miles away from where she died?"

"You think I don't know that?" replied Sherlock, looking at me like an idiot. "I just ignore those facts because I know 'John Smith' will explain them later. There's two mysteries surrounding Eartha Rood, and we only solved one. The other one isn't relevant to our situation at the moment. And especially not relevant to what the police are asking for."

"Since when have you worried about what the police want?" I questioned incredulously.

Sherlock only smiled again, turning back to the window and the flying city streets.

I was more puzzled by his words than normal. It all made no sense! The reason why Sherlock would be this disinterested in something so baffling and intriguing and mysterious was the thing that I was struggling to grasp. And then he just went on and settled with an impossible answer…it all was just so bewildering and bizarre.

And then he just smirked like that.

Sometimes I just would like to punch that arrogant little grin off his face. There are times that there's whole plans mapped out in his head that he refuses to tell me for some reason. And it's not always a good feeling being play like his ruddy violin. There are so many secrets and plots that I constantly feel like I'm in the dark. God, help me! Why am I friends with this man?

))))

Those questions and frustrations were still buzzing and reproducing in my head by the time we reached our flat. When I walked through the front door and up the stairs, all I wanted was a nice cuppa and a good book to take my mind off of my infuriating flatmate. Unfortunately, I didn't get my wish, for when I opened the door to the flat, I was met by a pair of converse and an open newspaper.

"W-what…," I stammered, staring at Smith and completely shocked.

"About time you showed up," stated Sherlock, addressing Smith and pushing past me to put up his coat.

"H-how did you get in here? I locked the door," I asked walking towards the foreign DI, still pretty startled with confusion seeping into my voice.

"Oh come on John. You know as well as I do that locks are the easiest things to get past," Sherlock answered for the man, as he sat down on the couch and Smith put down the newspaper.

"Okay…then how did you know that he would be here?" I questioned.

"Weren't you listening to me at all in the cab? Now be a good boy and get us some tea," replied Sherlock, expecting me to act like his bloody servant as he turned back to Smith.

"Nah, that's okay," said the man in question with his quirky smile before I could even think about following the genius's orders. "I don't really want tea…just ate."

"So tell me 'Smith'…," began Sherlock, like nothing had happened and I wasn't even in the room. "Who was Eartha Rood really?"

"Oh, I think you already know the answer to that question," responded Smith, the smile still engraved on his face.

"She was an alien wasn't she?"

"Wait what?" I exclaimed, startled into dropping my coat as I was hanging up. I had been keeping an open ear, listening to their conversation, knowing it would contain all the answers to my questions, but while I couldn't tell you what exactly I expected Sherlock to say, I could tell you that that wasn't it. "Seriously? _An_ _alien_. You've got to be kidding right?" I added. The whole idea seemed absolutely absurd, and therefore not a conclusion I thought Sherlock, the logical genius, to jump to.

In response, Sherlock sighed. It was a sound of annoyance and weariness, like the noise a teacher would make when they found themselves explaining the same thing for the millionth time to a particular slow student. It was irritating as hell.

"How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the possible, whatever remains, _however improbable_, must be the truth?" he said to me.

"Best remember that, Dr. John Watson. It'll come in handy later," added Smith, with a wink and an impossibly large fanboy smile.

I ignored the detective's strange expression. I was still too caught up in the fact that Sherlock seemed to be saying not only that aliens real, but also that the woman we were investigating was one of them. It was all just so unrealistic and unexpected and astonishing that I couldn't accept any of it.

"B-but…t-that's just impossible…," I muttered.

"Come on, John. How long have you lived in London? I realize you've been away in Afghanistan for a bit of that time, but still alien attacks have happened practically semiannually or more, since 2005."

"But that stuff ain't aliens…," I replied, still refusing to believe this conclusion despite Sherlock's increasingly reasonable argument.

"Yes, I know…It's mass hallucination, or stunts for a movie, or something else random that's complete nonsense. Just because they haven't contacted you personally, doesn't mean they don't exist."

"B-but you. You who…You who doesn't…" No, I refuse to acknowledge any of it, I thought. This just wasn't the Sherlock I knew. He was a logical person, one who jeers at the concept of God and any other superstition. So the fact that he, who doesn't even know the order of the planets in the solar system, believes in aliens was just simply…wrong.

"John, please, we can have this lovely conversation later, but right now, I want to know what 'Smith' has to say," spoke Sherlock, brushing me off and turning back to the foreign DI. "What else do you know about her?"

"Oh…_Well_…She was a scout. Earth has been pretty loud lately…and well her species was curious and just a bit power hungry. She was sent to Earth a few years ago…," replied Smith, causally leaning back in the chair like he was talking about the weather or something equally mundane.

"Mind if I interrupt you there, 'Smith.' I guessing they hacked various databases and created her past, and even found her a family, a sister to be precise who thought Eartha was a long lost sibling. Clever. Very clever…," interjected Sherlock, leaning forward in eagerness and interest.

"Yeah…well it's not that hard with your technology…Anyways, Eartha began to make a life for herself, reporting occasionally to her superiors. That figure on the roof was one of them," continued Smith, the last part directed towards me.

While those two were talking, I just stood there, my coat still at my feet. I was still in shock. It was almost as if my brain refused to process the information that was passing between those two men. As much as I would hate to admit, their words were answering my questions in a strangely rational yet completely impossible manner. Nevertheless my reasonable mind still couldn't accept them. So I just stood there, unable to handle the knowledge that was being revealed.

But the one thing that my brain was able to take in was the way Smith and Sherlock interacted with each other. It was strange listening to those two. It was as if they were each parts of a whole, that this back and forth was just a series of thoughts conducted by a single mind, like twins of some kind. But what made it completely bizarre was that I knew no one, save Mycroft, that could do this with Sherlock. The two were both eccentric geniuses, and it didn't take a genius to see that.

This day was getting stranger and stranger.

"But she then got used to Earth. In fact, she started to like it. And I'm hazarding a guess that her superiors weren't so fond of our little planet," added Sherlock.

"Yep, they were planning to invade and conquer," replied Smith.

And it was that phrase, possibly because it involved some implied danger and my military brain decided to step up and take control over what my rational brain was refusing to do, my shock finally departed and I was left with clarity enough to notice the tense in which Smith was using.

"Wait. _Were_?" I questioned.

"I stopped them…," replied Smith offhandedly like it was something he did every day. "But anyways, so Eartha told her superiors what she thought and…well you can guess what their reaction was. She knew they were going to take her away-"

"And that's why she had the passport and new ID. She was trying to flee her superiors. Didn't want to be a scout anymore, but she was still hesitant to leave London and her sister. She didn't get a chance even to go because that was when human jealousy got in the way. The envious ex tried make her miserable by putting laxatives in her coffee, but because of her otherworldly anatomy, she ended up poisoning her," added Sherlock.

"Oh, good. You've solved that bit. Knew you would. Brilliant you are," commented Smith with that odd smile of his.

Strangely, ever since I interjected, I was listening to the conversation and taking everything in stride. It seemed, that along with my shock, my disbelief had also run away, though not completely. While I was now focused on trying to pick up on the information more efficiently, the rational part of my mind still protested. But it was obvious that it currently was the minority. In seemed that my brain had made an executive decision; in order to get the answers I craved I was going to have to put aside my doubts and just deal with the impossibility of the natures of those answers. And it was because of this deal I made with myself, that I made sure that all my questions were going to be answered.

"But what about the 'radial excrement' and the fact that she her skin was yellow?" I asked.

"Defense mechanism. They don't normally look like humans. They're bipedal amphibious creatures. When the human form is compromised they try to transform back into their natural form, which is yellow, hence the yellow skin. This transformation usually leaves radial excrement, which was why it was left on the body, but the poison reacted with her biology in a way that prohibited her from changing (that was why the radial excrement was green because it was a reaction to the laxatives) and so since she couldn't change, she died," Smith stated like it was as normal and simple as clouds dropping rain.

"_Okay_…," I replied, my rational mind causing skepticism to seep into my voice. "But what about her car being 5 miles from where she died?"

"She was meeting with her superiors. They of course knew of her plans to escape to America, and were trying to talk her out of it. They then gave her a lift to her work, where she was then poisoned and then on her way to her date she died."

"And that explains everything, doesn't it?" interjected Sherlock. The tone of his voice was the same as one he displayed the last time Smith was in our flat. It was the one that said he just was saying something because he needed to speak, yet it was clear that he'd rather be saying something else.

"Yep. Pretty much…now I would love to stay and chat some more…but I got to get going," replied Smith like he didn't notice my flatmate's tone. And with that he stood up and took his first few steps towards the door.

For a moment there it looked like everything indeed was complete. All the questions had been answered, even though most of those said answers were completely impossible and unrealistic they were still answers. And while, yes, I would, for nights in the future, ponder this strange conclusion to Eartha Rood's story, my mind was satisfied, save the rational minority. But for now everything was currently traveling into my long term memory.

That was until my flatmate opened his annoyingly brilliant mouth.

"I know who you are," blurted out Sherlock, finally saying what he had been wanted to say ever since our last meeting with the DI. I wondered what my friend could possibly mean by that.

"Pardon?" responded Smith, turning back to face Sherlock.

"You're not John Smith. You're someone else. Someone that I never thought would actually exist."

My eyebrows furrowed in confusion. What did my flatmate mean that Smith wasn't Smith? But as I asked myself that question, I knew that Sherlock had at least suspected that since the beginning. What was the phrase he had used? _He's not a DI as much as I'm a bus driver._

But that wasn't all. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that during the whole case Sherlock had always addressed Smith like his name was in quotations, like he knew that wasn't his real name. Yet it really wasn't until now that I connected the dots. I felt so stupid for not seeing it, but I guess I was just too wrapped up in the case to truly listen all of what Sherlock had deduced.

"Yah? Who do you think I am?" questioned Smith that quirky smile once again engraved on his face.

"You're the Doctor," replied Sherlock confidently, standing up to face the man.

"Wait," I began. More dots were being connected as things slid into place in my mind. "That was what the figure called you on the roof…but doctor who?"

"Just the Doctor," answered Sherlock.

"_Yep_, just the Doctor…," confirmed Smith, or really the Doctor…which I really wasn't about to believe was his name. "But how did you find that out. I work extremely hard to stay in the shadows."

"Yes, I figured that out when I crashed John's laptop a few time searching on the internet. Don't worry, I'll have it fixed sooner or later…," he continued in response to my glare. "Anyway, I did end up finding something online. Just a few rumors, which after talking to Mycroft…" He grimaced at that fact, like it was the worst thing in the world that he could've done, which for him was practically the truth. "I was able to confirm.

"The Doctor's the reason why London isn't a pile of ash and why the human race aren't all intergalactic slaves or food and why the Earth is still in the sky along with other minor things. He's also a time traveling alien. That's why he knows that I'll become famous in the future."

"W-what?" I stammered. Now accepting that Eartha Rood might've been an alien was one thing, but accepting not only that Smith wasn't Smith but he was instead a world-saving, time traveling alien named the Doctor was completely different. It was almost too much to grasp and make sense of. It was all just so impossible. And what was almost even stranger was that Smith agreed with Sherlock's conclusion about him.

"Yep. Pretty much sums me up. At least what I am now…savior of the Earth and all that jazz," confirmed Smith, that smile still plaguing his lips. "Knew you'd figure it out sooner or later. With someone that curious and brilliant with a strong hatred of boredom it was only a matter to time. But-" He was cut off by a beeping coming from his pocket. At first I thought it was just his mobile ringing, that was until the DI took out an odd pieced-together device that actually looked like it could've once been a phone.

"Well, that's my queue to leave," Smith continued once he had the beeping device in his hand. "Hopefully see you later, Sherlock Holmes. You too Dr. John Watson. Keep up the good work." And without a second to spare, the foreign DI rushed out of the door and probably out of our lives for good.

A silence followed his departure. For me, it was a shocked silence. I was having a hard time wrapping my mind around what had just occurred. All the impossibilities of the day were weighing on my shoulders and causing my brain to spin. I had to say something.

"Well that was probably the weirdest conversation…no man…no whole bleeding case that I've ever and probably will ever be involved in," I muttered under my breath.

To tell you the truth, as I said that my brain was already unconsciously trying to forget those particular unfeasible aspects of the case. If not forget, file away as a bad dream or a hallucination caused by Sherlock's chemicals somehow making it into my food. Although I somehow knew it would pop up again whenever something otherworldly happened to London. Be for now, my brain was trying to turn everything back to something realistic and normal. Whatever normal was…

"The day is still young, John…now how 'bout that tea?" replied Sherlock as he sat down and picked up the newspaper.

I sighed as I picked up my coat, making my way towards the kitchen. I could use a cuppa myself.


End file.
